Cast Your Stone
by Pinky-Keane
Summary: What happens when a teenage Daryl is taken in by a black foster family? Daryl's internal struggle when his bigoted beliefs are challenged, and how will Merle react when he is released from prison?  M for strong language including slurs.
1. Prologue

**Cast Your Stone**

Disclaimer: The characters, Daryl and Merle Dixon belong to AMC.

Warning: In order to remain true to _certain characters, _some of the dialog is very offensive and racially insensitive. However this type of language is used only for the purpose of character development. It is definitely not my intention to offend anyone.

**Our Way**

It'd been four years since he'd seen the old farmhouse and it looked different. Darker, older, like creaking frame was slumping in exhaustion. The yard was still kept up, lawn mowed, hedges trimmed, but it still held a certain feel of abandonment.

Shouldering the worn olive drab duffle, Merle walked up to the porch, pausing a moment when the sole of his boot made contact with the first step. The main door was open, but the old rusted screen kept him from getting a clear view of the living room.

The smell of gasoline suddenly hit his nose and he heard a rustling sound coming from around the side of the house.

"Well hey there little brother, whachu doin'?"

Daryl looked up from the lawn mower, as he poured gas into the tank, spilling a bit over the side in his surprise.

The kid did not look good. He looked much scrawnier than even a boy of 12 rightfully should. His skin was filthy and his close cropped hair was chipped with scars. Seeing the kid against the green of the lawn and red of the gas can, almost made him appear to be in black and white compared to his surroundings, with his gray complexion and dirty undershirt. The only thing that made him appear alive was his eyes, they were sunken some but they were still that sharp steel blue.

"Jesus baby brother, ya look like hell." The twinge of guilt Merle felt was quickly blanked and smothered by anger. Anger at his daddy for neglecting his duties as a man. You take care of you and yours.

Growing up, Merle got their daddy's 'good years' before he drunk himself mean. The change started shortly after their momma let out, back when Daryl was still stumbling around in huggies. Seemed since then the mean ol'bastard had it out for the kid. What was the saying? Momma's baby, daddy's maybe? Merle never did get a good look at the man in the red truck, who sped off with their momma in tow.

By the time Merle turned 18 it'd gotten so bad, his daddy had put boot to ass and Merle stormed out of the Dixon home. With nowhere to go he enlisted in the army. He was old enough to find a way out but little eight year old Daryl was trapped.

Sure, part of him knew what it was going to be like for the kid, but it was a part that was easy to ignore. But seeing it, _actually_ seeing it, was something you couldn't push to the back of your mind.

Daryl didn't say a word as he topped off the mower's tank and replaced the gas cap. He didn't quite know how to handle what was going on inside him. A flush of hate mixed with wash of relief. Part of him wanted to hate his brother for leaving him, yet he found himself fighting a strong urge to just run over and cling to Merle for dear life, because he wouldn't have to be alone anymore. The latter winning out the two brothers closed the distance between them with quick steps and slapped their arms around one another.

"What's all this, huh?" Merle palmed the top of Daryl's scarred head. "You grow it out like one o'them damn hippies ain't nobody's gonna see." Merle chuckled as he began leading Daryl to the back door to the kitchen. "Could even do it up with bows on if'in ya wanted, 'eh, little Daryleena."

"Shut up!" Daryl punched his brother in the arm, biting his lip to stifle a smile.

—~~~

"Well 'ere he is. Hasn't been up fer weeks. Goes in an' out but mostly out." Daryl said nodding the rental hospital bed set up in the middle of the living room. The ol' man couldn't make it up the stairs any more, not coughing and wheezing like he was.

Wasn't the show down Merle had been expecting but he could work with this.

In the corner of the room the oxygen machine hissed, and as Merle eyeballed the equipment, the worry of finances crept into his mind.

"How long this been goin' on?"

"'Bout a month er so."

"You been takin' care of 'im?"

"They got a lady ta come out twice a day, hospice nurse 'er sumthin'. …That waitress sold yer bike." Daryl added cautiously, as if just realizing the real reason Merle had been asking.

"He still runnin' with that tired ol' cunt?" Merle frowned at the thought of that plastic fingernailed, platinum haired, blue eyeshadow wearing harpy.

"Yeah, still lightin' them unfiltered Winstons fer 'im too." Daryl sourly spat, as he folded his arms, unconsciously hiding the spatter of round burn scars that covered them.

Merle was pulled from the deep dark pit of his dangerously silent anger, when a knock sounded at the door. His neck snapped looking down at Daryl for an explanation.

"Oh, that'll be Irma Lee, the nurse."

"Sounds like a nigger name." Merle said absently.

"Well she _is_ a colored lady." Daryl said grabbing the back of his neck as he headed for the door. Merle's hand suddenly reached out and grabbed Daryl by the back of his shirt, yanking him to a halt.

"You don' let her know I'm here."

"Why not?"

"Don'chu question me boy! Git her in an' out an' be quick 'bout it."

Merle hurried upstairs his duffle in tow. Leaning against the hallway he remained out of sight but not out of earshot.

He heard some muffled greetings and even heard a _ma'ma _in there somewhere, making him shake his head.

Carefully and silently Merle slid down the wall and sat with his bag flopped over his lap. Grabbing the zipper with both hands he gently inched it open, not making a sound. He reached in and pawed around until his fingertips found what they sought. Glad he'd transferred it to the glass vile from that plastic baggie. Merle unscrewed the cap and tapped out some of the white contents onto the back of his hand.

—~~~

"The hell took so damn long?" Merle came down the stairs, lazily letting his boots drop from step to step. There was no answer and no sign of Daryl as he scanned the living room.

Peering through the archway leading to the kitchen, he saw Daryl sitting happy, with dark molasses barbeque sauce smeared all over his face, and clutched in his fingers was a damn delicious looking fat pork rib.

Feeling Merle's presents, Daryl pulled himself away from the trance of his feeding frenzy and smiled up at his big brother.

"Should try this Merle." He said from behind a mouth full of bbq, as he gestured to the foil steam pan sitting in the middle of the table.

"Jesus boy!" Merle sauntered over and smacked the back of Daryl's head. "Got the manners of a damn stray dog."

"I's hungry." Daryl nodded at his justification and continued devouring the sweet rib meat.

"Where'd ya git all this?"

"Irma." He answered quickly between bits.

"You mean ta tell me that niggress nurse's been feedin' ya?"

"Sometimes. She brought slaw an' fried chicken last time. "S'good."

Merle sniffed then wiped his finger across a rib and licked it clean.

"Damn that is good! I tell ya one thing them niggers can cook by god." Merle said smiling as he plucked a particularly meaty rib off the pile and took a huge bite. Smacking his lips he smiled at his little brother. "As good as this is, you won't need ta be looked after by no coon no more, 'cause I'ma gonna take care a'ya little brother. It's jist gonna be you an' me from now on. The Dixon brothers." He chuckled as he took another bite.

Daryl stopped in mid chew, letting his jaw go slack as he noticed his brother's eyes. Once blue they seemed to have darkened, and with the shadow cast by the circular florescent tube hanging over the table, they even looked like they had gone completely black.

—~~~

"Well, ashes ta ashes, right brother?" While looking down at his little brother, Merle tugged the edges of the pillow as if to fluff it up. Nudging Daryl with an elbow, Merle nodded to the oxygen tube, sitting crooked under the old man's nose. "Git that off 'im, would ya."

With clammy and trembling fingers, Daryl reached over and pulled off the yellowing tube, then quickly stepped back, thinking the old man would suddenly lurch forward or something.

Stiff armed Merle brought the pillow clenched in his mitts, down over their daddy's face. Daryl swore he saw his eyes open right before the pillow fell.

"Easy peasy Japanesey." Merle said as he turned back and gave Daryl a strange smile, with a hint of a wink.

The old man's motionless body abruptly jerked, starting an instinctual fight for air, which caught Merle off guard.

Quickly shifting his attention back to the task at hand, Merle growled when withered fingers caught his arm just above the elbow. Dirty unkempt nails dug into his flesh, and drew blood. Merle's jaw clamped shut, as he strained against the old man's primal thrashing and flailing.

Adrenaline drawing the seconds out into minuets, allowed time for panic to stab into Merle's chest. An urgency to end this. The pain of those gouging nails going unfelt as Merle pressed his full weight down, and swung a knee up, right into the old man's quilt covered chest.

As Daryl looked on in fear his hands involuntarily tightened into fists, and then it was just all too much. He slammed his eyes shut and the pulse pounding in his ears muffled the sounds of the struggle.

—~~~

"Whoo, the ol'man had more fight left in 'im than I thought." Plunking his ass down on the dusty hard wood floor, Merle wiped the sweat from his brow. His gaze strayed to the limp hand dangling from the bedside, eyeing the blood caked under the fingernails. "Like he was savin' it up for sumthin'." He said breathlessly.

Merle's mind was racing with genuine surprise. With the old man's health, he figured it'd go quick and easy, that the ol' timer would just sort of slip away. He was sweating for god's sake! Hell, his arms were even sore. "Stubborn ol' bastard." Merle mumbled as he held out his hand to Daryl, who stood motionless and wide-eyed. Looking up at the kid, Merle impatiently snapped his fingers, grabbing Daryl's attention.

Merle threw an arm over his little brother's shoulders and led him to the kitchen, sitting the kid down at the table.

Ransacking several cupboards Merle grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam and slammed a glass down in front of Daryl.

"Here bud, knock that back." It was really the only comfort Merle rightly knew how to give.

The amber liquid burned on its way down, and set fire to Daryl's stomach, the smoky bourbon taking its effect on the gangly 12 year old instantly.

"If there is anything that needs sayin' now's the time. After ta'night you never, and I mean never, talk 'bout this again. Not ta no one, not even ta me. Ya' understand?"

Daryl kept his mouth shut and just nodded his head, being sure not to break eye contact with his brother.

"Good. Now tamarra morrin' when that stuck-up nigger nursemaid comes 'round, you jist bawl ya lil' eyes out, like it's the first time ya seein' 'im. Ya' hear?"

Again remaining silent Daryl nodded.

Pulling the bottle from his frowning lips Merle, slammed the booze down on the tabletop.

"I asked ya a question now! You'd do well to answer me, 'stead'a all that stupid noddin' yer doin'!"

"Yeah Merle, I hear ya'." This time despite his efforts Daryl's gaze fell to the floor.

"That's better. We did the right thing here, little brother. Ain't no way fer a man ta live. But not everyone's gonna see it our way." He sniffed and sloppily poured Daryl another shot, making it look like an accident that any of the liquid made it into the glass at all. Pointing at the full shot, Merle gestured to his brother to down it quick.

"Now, did daddy talk to any suits comin' 'round the house lately? Sign papers, anything like that?"

Daryl stopped himself in mid nod, pretending to clear his throat instead.

"Yeah, that Nancy, she come 'round with some kinda papers an' he signed 'em."

"That succu'bus bitch." Frowning Merle took another long pull from the bottle, the furrows in his brow deepening in contemplation. "Ya' know where they might be?"

"I don' know, prob'ly with her I guess."

"Well ya better find out!" The Jim Beam suddenly when flying across the room and shattered against the greasy yellow wallpaper. Merle grabbed Daryl by the shoulders, pulling him in close, face to face. "She's tryin' to take the house kid, don'cha see that? Tryin' to keep us apart. Ya don' wanna end up in a damn foster cult with some perv faggot fer a daddy, do ya?"

Daryl urgently shook his head, but was suddenly rocked by a sharp slap from Merle's sweaty palm. Grabbing a fist full of Daryl's stained undershirt, Merle pointed a thick digit in his face. "You find out!" Hissing through clenched teeth, Merle didn't release the grip on him for what felt like an eternity in Daryl's mind.

—~~~

Author's note:

Chapter inspired by:

One- Johnny Cash

So yeah… first chapter of my first FF… Not really sure how well this story's going to be received, but thank you so much for taking the time to read it. Since this is pre Z day, I do apologize for there not being any zombie bashing and all grossly awesome stuff, but if you are a Dixon fan I hope that you will enjoy it all the same (^.~)b

Any feedback would be wonderful and greatly appreciated!


	2. Get Off My Caseworker

Four years later.

—~~~

**Get off my caseworker**

Scuffing the toe of his boot at the tear in the gray burber, Daryl sat fidgeting in the stark waiting room. All government buildings looked the same, white walls, flat carpets and stained upholstered partitions instead of real offices.

Glaring up at the clock, hanging crooked on the wall, Daryl folded his arms. He had been there for nearly half an hour and there was still no sign of Ollie Holton's fat head popping up from his cubical to call him back.

The black man sitting next to him cleared his throat and brushed invisible lint from his upmarket jacket. Daryl could tell the man was eyeballing him, but he kept his stare fixed to the red secondhand as it jerkily made its way around the clock.

For a long while he told himself that this shit was all Merle's fault. If only he hadn't have lost his temper and gotten his dumb ass court-martialed of all things! But he knew now, that he was every bit as much to blame.

Since that bitter sweet day Merle came back home and saved him from that mean ol'snake, things had been going fine. Merle won out and snatched the house right from under Nancy's nose and even gained full custody of his little brother.

In exchange for a place to stay, Merle had even gotten some of his army buddies to pitch in and managed to reopen their daddy's old shop. Business was slow, but somehow they always seemed to have enough money to get by month to month. The guys even let Daryl help out some, teaching him all about motorcycles and mechanics, but it was the weekend hunting trips with Merle, he looked forward to most. It was easily the best two years of Daryl's life, but it all had been a little too good. How the hell was he supposed to know missing school was crime and that Merle would be held legally responsible? When that stuffed shirt showed up at the house waving around an $80 penalty notice, Merle cracked the suit right in the jaw and took five of the bastard's teeth. And what the recruiters never told Merle was that when you enlist for the four years, you actually are enlisting for eight. Four active, four inactive. Technically still enlisted, Merle was court-martialed and sentenced to 16 months.

Since then Daryl had been bounced around from one foster family to the next, always running away back to the farmhouse, where Merle's buddies still lived, whenever he could get the chance.

That is until he landed himself a 6 month stint in juvie, and then wound up with the Belingtons.

Finally Olli's fat sweaty bald head came into view; the back of it had always reminded Daryl of a pack of ballparks franks. Flicking his wrist his caseworker signaled him over and then popped back down like a Whac-A-Mole.

Feeling like a lab mouse, Daryl made his way through the maze of partitions, sneaking peeks into each "office" as he went by. He paused at one, fighting the urge to rip down a stupid poster of a kitten, with the words _hang in there_ printed at the bottom.

Lord he hated this place.

Hovering at the opening of Olli's cubical, he rolled his eyes.

"Well, come on in to my office, Daryl. How have ya been?"

"Ain't a real office no how. Ever jist wanna kick this bitch down?" Daryl grabbed the top of the partition and jostled it, testing its strength.

"No." He answered, hiding a hint of amusement

"I would." Daryl said, falling back into the chair across from Olli's desk.

"Well I'd pr'fer ya didn't." Ollie said flatly as he laced his chubby fingers together and placed his hands on his desk. "So it's been a week, how's this place working out for ya' Daryl? How are ya getting along with the Belington's?"

"Fine, I guess. Don't matter. I'll be outta here soon anyhow." Sinking lower in his chair Daryl folded his arms over his chest.

"'Course it matters Daryl. Ya want this last year and a half to go by smoothly don't ya? Yer almost done with school."

"I'll be 18 'fore then."

"Well, technically, we can't make ya stay."

"Ain't no technically 'bout it! I'ma gonna be long gone."

"Daryl, c'mon. Mr. Belington knows the situation and he's agreed to let ya stay 'til yer done with school. It's a decision that's gonna effect the rest of yer life."

"Hell with that, ain't ever learned nothin' worth knowin' there."

"They're a good family Daryl."

"What, fer a buncha coons?"

"Daryl…" Olli slid a hand down his face, dragging out a sigh. "You're your own worst enemy here. They're a good family an' only want to help ya."

"Well I don' wonn'it! Old 'nough ta take care'a ma own damn self!"

"Not according to the state, yer not."

"Move ma ass back ta the house, with ma brother where I b'long." Ignoring Ollie, Daryl nodded to himself as if notarizing his statement.

"Daryl, tell me something, it's been more than six months, how many times Merle come ta see ya since he got outta prison?"

"Don'cha try that psyc'logical shit on me! He's busy s'all!" His temper gone, Daryl gave the corner of Ollie's desk a swift kick.

"Alright. Alright." Ollie held up a hand in surrender. "Just do me a favor an' think 'bout it. We can talk 'bout it during our next meeting, after ya had a lil' more time ta settle in. A meeting which I _already_ setup with Mr. Belington, so none 'a that stuff ya pulled last time."

"Alright, _lord_!" Rolling his eyes, Daryl slapped his palms to his knees and stood up.

As Daryl walked back into the waiting room, Marshal Belington rose from his seat, his tweed coat neatly folded over his arm. He was tall man clad in a conservative beige suit, with flawlessly polished chocolate colored oxfords. Peering at the young man from behind small back rimmed glasses, his mouth pulled into a tight line.

Daryl did not look happy, not that he ever did, but he was walking like he was mad at the floor, with his head hung so low, his shaggy hair fell over his eyes. He walked straight past his new foster parent without so much as a word or a glance.

—~~~

The wet snow splattered the windshield like a coconut slushy and even the wipers of Mr. Belington's immaculate Fifth Avenue Chrysler had trouble keeping up with the late January snow fall.

Marshal's eyes kept flicking from the road to the teenager, slumped down in the passenger seat. Daryl couldn't have said more than ten words this past week and unlike his wife Pamela, who secretly called the boy stars and bars, Marshal got a sense that his coldness was due to a near paralyzing shyness, brought on by his isolated childhood.

"Them meetings are a waste of time, if ya ask me." Marshal said casually, tiring to build some kind of rapport with the boy. Even though Daryl had resisted his every attempt thus far, Marshal refused to give up. Not just for the boy's sake. He dreaded those 'I told you so' speeches. So Marshal soldiered on. "There's no shortage of room fo' improvement at that place. Can make a body feel like they're just a box that needs checked off."

"The hell you know 'bout it?"

It was at least anger; anger was easier to work with than silence.

"More than ya might think. If there's one thin' I know, they got one helluva way of makin' ya feel unheard. Make ya just wanna clam on up, like there's no use anyway." His gloved hands at ten and two, Marshal slowly bobbed his head. "Tryin' to do right by you boy, but if ya don't let me know what you're thinkin', an' what you want, it's gonna be mighty hard."

"Well, right now I'm thinkin' I'm hungry an' wanna burger."

"Ya just read ma damn mind. boy."

—~~~

Chapter inspired by:

Grinnin' in Your Face- Little Axe

Author's note:

Any feedback would be wonderful and greatly appreciated! I'm open to any suggestions or questions. Thanks for reading (^.~)b


	3. Worlds Collide

**Worlds Collide **

Marshal's black Chrysler came to a stop in what he figured was a parking stall. The slush on the pavement made it impossible to see the lines, so he just followed the tracks of a pervious patron.

Adjusting his scarf, Marshal made to open the car door when Daryl suddenly piped up.

"Why don'cha jist use the drive through."

"Oh hell no. You ain't eatin' in this car, boy. That onion stench neva comes out. Inside or nothin' at all." Marshal grimaced at his own words realizing Daryl was far too old for that kind of talk.

"_Pfft_." Daryl scoffed as he jerked the handle without much more protest.

Sitting across from one another in the cheap plastic seats, Marshal considered himself lucky that Daryl had come in at all. He thought the boy just hard headed enough to go hungry simply out of spite.

Daryl propped his elbow up on the table and rested his head in his palm, as he absentmindedly stabbed his straw in and out of the lid of his soda, producing the most irritating screeching sound known to man. The sound grated away at Marshal's patience but he was thankfully saved by the employee who came by and slid their order out in front of them, on that red tray of mercy.

After a few moments of silently digging in, Marshal brought a napkin up to his mouth, the rough texture scratching against his moustache. He cleared his throat and ventured to start some sort of dialog.

"Abraham's lookin' to hire on some afternoon help at the hardware store." He threw out nonchalantly.

"Pritchet's?" Daryl questioned with a cheek full of half chewed burger. "Ain't that 'cross from tha pharmacy? Ya want me workin' there so ya can keep dibs on me er sumthin'?" He grumpily grabbed his soda, to help wash down the enormous bites he was taking.

"Maybe I want you workin' there, so next time the burgers can be on you."

"I ain't freeloadin'. S'up ta me I'd be on ma own."

"I neva said you were. You seem bored. Gettin' a job would give you lil' mo freedom. You ain't prisoner here. No matta how much you'd like to think you are. Could even save up an' get a car 'fore too long." Marshal pointed a manicured finger at the boy, to highlight the point he was trying to make.

"Fuck." Daryl dropped his double-double on the table and involuntarily slid down the back of the slippery plastic seat.

"Did I say somthin' to upset you?" Marshal asked peering at the boy from under a puckered brow, looking more than offended, when suddenly he heard a shout come from the other side of the eatery.

"Well holy fuckin' shit! That lil' Dixon over there?" Dwayne Craven hollered, ginning as he looked up from pouring himself a coke. He was in his usual worn camo pants paired with an orange hunting vest, over a pit-stained thermal. But the man's most identifying feature was the waffen SS markings tattooed on the side of his head, peeking through his close cropped blonde hair.

Daryl hadn't seen him or any of Merle's buddies in six months, due to his little stretch in juvie after stealing a car from his last foster family. He was planning on being there for Merle when got out, to be the one to pick him up in front of those chain link gates, but got snagged by highway patrol before he ever made it.

Out of all Merle's friends Dwayne was the one who always spent the most time with Daryl in the shop. It wasn't so much that they were closest in age, but because everyone else thought Craven was a fuck up and slow to boot. Even Daryl, with his more than patchy educational history, was sharper than that man would ever be, no matter how many times you drug his thick skull over a wet stone, which his daddy surly did a time or two.

"The hell's this? Yer probation officer?" With his thumbs hooked into his unoccupied belt loops, Dwayne bobbed on over.

"Dwayne." Daryl nodded slightly. His fingers found the dip of his temple, which he started rubbing as if he could erase himself from the picture.

When Marshal looked up, the corners of mouth pulled down in a mock frown, looking more amused than anything when he got a good look at his ward's acquaintance. He regarded Daryl with the smug expression then turned back to face what he deemed to be a sad and misguided young man.

Marshal always had a knack for sizing people up in seconds flat. Just seemed to have a way of looking right into the very core of a person and seeing them for what they really were. He was no more scared of this young man, than a lion was scared of a lone jackal.

Rising from his chair Marshal's six foot four frame towered over Dwayne's stocky build.

"So you're Daryl's friend?"

Dwayne made a sound resembling a hiss. Completely ignoring the man in front of him he turned to Daryl, the furrows in his brown deepening more than his actual thought.

"The hell's goin' on Daryl, who's this ni—

"Daryl's gonna be stayin' with my family and I fo' while." Marshal cut Dwayne off, attempting to save the young man from his ignorant self.

Daryl shifted in his seat when he caught sight of that side-eye Marshal quickly shot him.

The strain was visible on Dwayne's scrunched up face as he processed this new information.

"No shit! Are you serious they put cha with colored folk? That don' seem right ta me. Does that seem right ta you?" Putting on his best intimidating scowl, Dwayne directed his question to the man in front of him this time.

"Marshal Belington." Extending out a hand, Marshal stared down at what he saw as a weak-willed embodiment of misdirected hate and waited. The young man eyed the offering with suspicion and hesitated before a snide grin nearly split his face in two.

"Oh, well look at that." Dwayne chuckled, feigning surprise as he shook Marshal's hand. "Ya shake an' everythin', think that makes ya civil 'nough ta raise a white?"

Marshal's grip suddenly became agonizing, shifting Dwayne's knuckles uncomfortably against one another as the joints compacted together.

"Yes I do. But what about you Dwayne, should we see if we can make you civil?" Leaning in close Marshal spoke in a cool even tone.

Struggling like a jackrabbit caught in a snare, Dwayne pulled back and Marshal released the young man just as fast as he had grabbed him, sending him stumbling back a few paces.

At that moment, as Dwayne stood staring into that man's eyes, he suddenly found himself feeling small, with a skin so thin and full of more missing patches than the coat of a mange ridden dog.

He rubbed a calloused palm over the blonde stubble sprouting from his dome, as if he could just massage the feeling away like a leg cramp. Swallowing down his cowardice before he could even taste it, he looked down as he scuffed the heel of his boot into the tile, and then looked up grinning, a chuckle escaping through the cracks of his teeth.

"Well alright there, _Mr. Belin'ton_. Ya jist make doubly sure ya take good care'a our boy here. 'F not…" Taking several backward steps, he finally dared to show his back and walk away, forgetting about his coke-a-cola. When he reached the threshold he looked over his shoulder at Marshal and smiled. "Ya jist be careful out there now, ya hear?"

The bell over the door gently jingled. A fitting punctuation for his leave.

Daryl expected to hear and ear full as Marshal took his seat, but all he got was:

"Damn fries went cold."

_He mean sumthin' else by that? _Daryl pondered for a moment but promptly decided not follow _that_ train wreck of a thought and decided to go down a more practical route. _Good god, the man was decent enough to feed me and share his damn roof_. Daryl had to respect that, no matter how much he hated to admit it.

"Thanks fer the burger." To get rid of pride's bitter after taste, Daryl took huge bite out of that grease bomb and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

— ~~~

Chapter inspired by:

Dirt in My Pocket- Joe Bonamassa


	4. Livin' Low

**Livin' Low**

Warning: In order to remain true to certain characters,some of the dialog is very offensive and racially insensitive. However this type of language is used only for the purpose of character development.

The following chapter also contains mentions of the production and distribution of illegal substances. Basically just plain crazy ignorant _redneckness _is to follow…. Is that a word? I'ma say it is.

— ~~~

Dwayne turned the volume up in his late model Bronco as if it could drowned out his own thoughts. He couldn't face them anymore than he could face that man. Anger and what could have been identified as shame, if he would have taken the time to process it, made him chuckle every so often as he sped through town. After hollering along to Van Halen's Panama on the radio, he made it down the stretch of highway in record time then pulled off onto the long dirt road, leading up to the ol'Dixon farmhouse.

The yard was a mixture of snow and mud and was full of tucks and motorcycles haphazardly parked in no discernable rows or order.

His breaks squealed to a halt and the old Bronco let out a rusted groan in protest, as Dwayne kicked open the door.

Ammonia burned his nose as he passed by the basement window. Nothing new to him he just gagged and hawked phlegm into the snow as he continued up to the porch.

The atmosphere in the house was pretty subdued for humpday. Merle had a small poker game going in the middle of the living room with Randy and Cody and ol'Hank Williams was drawling through the old brown speakers that were stacked up around the TV. Krista seemed content watching some slasher flick without sound as she draped her spidery legs over Bo's lap, while he was content sitting on the couch smoking a joint.

Irritably ignoring the presence leaning over his shoulder, Merle slowly rearranged his five card hand.

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Dwayne was breathing as if air could give him courage.

"'Eh Dixon you ain't never gonna guess what I saw ta'day!"

"Lemme guess, yer cousin spread eagle upside down on a pole?" Silent laughter jostled Merle's shoulders but not once did he look up from his hand.

"Hey! I didn't know she's ma cousin." Nervously laughing, Dwayne went ahead and played along with the joke.

"Yeah well, ya certainly did the second time 'round!" Merle grinned as he glanced over at his buddies prompting a fit of chuckles to erupt around the table.

"Yeah ya think that's funny? Guess what I think is?" Dwayne let out a flustered huff. "Yer kin bein' reared by a nigger!"

It didn't matter that he was three hands up, Merle Dixon grabbed that boy by the throat and choke slammed him into the flimsy card table. The table's legs buckled and were sticking out from under Dwayne's body, looking like squashed insect as they crashed to the floor.

"The fuck you say!" Sitting on top of the kid, Merle tightened the grip he had on Dwayne's throat.

Dwayne opened his mouth but words failed him. As far as he was concerned Merle was an all around swell guy to look up to, but he could turn faster than whiskey in a bad barrel. And having a mouth fatter than his brain, Dwayne more often than not, found himself at the business end of Dixon's temper. Cody and Randy now used to it, just simply stood with their hands up in surrender, a silent pledge not to intervene.

"The fuck you know 'bout that? The hell Daryl tell ya huh?" The anger Merle felt went deeper than poor Dwayne realized. _"God damn it!"_ Merle inwardly shouted, that little punk promised never to talk about that time of his life. Not about their daddy not about that nigger woman nurse and not even about that damn barbeque!

"He ain't said a damn thin' jist sat there wastin' air!"

"Huh?" Merle's grip on Dwayne's throat relaxed, and quickly realized he had probably just given away more that what the idiot probably knew. "What are you talkin' 'bout Dwayne?"

"Fuckin' 'tarded gov'ment workers, man! Gone an' done stuck yer kin with a jigaboo family. Gone ta git me burger and there he was sharing a table with some big nigger, jist as content as a pig at a slop troth. Saw it with ma own two eyes."

"Yer own two eyes, huh?" Merle sneered.

Somewhere in his mind, Dwayne suddenly regretted drawing attention to that particular part of his anatomy, just a split second before his left eye was splattered with a frothy ball of spit.

Releasing his grip completely, Merle rose to his feet chuckling humorlessly.

Wiping the spit from his eye Dwayne scrambled to his feet, needing to pick up the pieces of his splintered pride.

"Yeah, well don' worry I sorted 'im out! I did! Put that uppity coon right back in his place! That's what I done! What kinda system we got, huh? That's what we git thanks ta the damn dem-o-crats! Ain't no way fer a soldier ta be raised!"

Dwayne's hollering was making it awful difficult for Merle to put this information in that part of his mind that was easy to ignore, and for that he was just about ready to deck the kid.

Feeling that the spark was nearing the end of the fuse, Bo shoved Krista's legs from his lap and stood to face the angry Dixon.

"What's goin' on brother?" Bo asked calmly as he clapped Merle on the back the sound accentuated by the black leather vest he was wearing. Feeling the tension in the man's shoulder, Bo led Merel into the kitchen and away from Dwayne.

"Nuthin' I can't handle." Merle shot a glare through the archway making sure Dwayne wasn't eavesdropping.

"Handle? Sure it even needs ta be? We don' need ta be drawin' attention, like spookin' coons at burger joints. How we know he didn't call the cops?"

"Dwayne's a story teller Bo. Ain't nuthin' happened. He didn't sort nobody."

"Well nigger family 'er no, reachin' out now would be a stupid move. He's in the system, he's got eyes on him."

"Yeah well, I taught the boy right. I'd put 'im 'bout 16, he ain't gonna be ruined by this."

"Right, good on ya' brother. I know it's gotta be eatin' ya up, but our heads need ta be on straight right now. The kitchen's almost done, an' the sooner we move it outta the basement, the sooner we can all relax."

"Ya think I'm so et'up I don't know that? Movin' the kitchen was my idea in the first god damned place! An' I'ma gonna see this through!"

"Yeah an' if it weren't fer me, you'd still be runnin' that rinky dink op'ration, 'steada mass producin', don'cha fergit that."

Fighting to control his temper as Bo stocked off, Merle took his anger out on the old florescent light hanging over the table, batting at it with a heavy palm.

The swinging light cast a violent shadow puppet show across Merle's lined face, as his thoughts on Bo darkened.

For Merle, prison wasn't a place of rehabilitation, it was a place for low lives to hook up with other low lives and then drag each other lower once they got out. That is exactly how Merle met Bo. Neither man was particularly fond of one another, and working together was kind of like storing flammables with combustibles. But Merle's 16 month absence weakened his little operation's claim on the meth market and those bathtub-gin-billies were more than happy to fill the gap.

The Jennings and the Dixons had a long standing feud, which started long before even their daddy's time. As soon as those Jennings boys got wind of the eldest Dixon's incarceration, they jumped on the chance to muscle on in.

These last six months had been all about reclaiming what was his and re-carving out that foot hold. He really hadn't stopped to think about his little brother or even try for custody. Sure one day the kid had the potential to be another pair of boots on the ground but that just wasn't today and if that puny pansy hadn't learned who the hell he was and where he'd come from by now, then fuck the little bastard. If Merle couldn't ignore it then he'd comfort himself with such thoughts. Sure, you take care of you and yours but at what point does yours become their own? Daryl was old enough to take care of himself and would make his way back eventually.

— ~~~

Chapter inspired by:

Pistol Blues - Cashman

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading! I very much appreciate it!

Kitchen= meth lab

Bathtub-gin-billy= a "Merle term" for hillbillies who make moonshine, hehe.


	5. Responsibility and Trust

So uh hey it's been a while cough*. I'm sorry it's been so long, but my house flooded about 4 months ago and I lost a lot of my writing because of course my computer tower was on the floor when it happened so I was pretty bummed there for a while. But I'm still very interested in this fic and I'm really trying to jump back into it.

**Responsibility and Trust **

— ~~~

Daryl had a squirmy feeling in his gut that followed him the whole ride home and even up to his room. He lay on his bed, which he always pulled the excessively puffy comforter off of, and stared at the ceiling, with his arms folded under his head. After a bit of deliberation he was able to identify the feeling that pestered him as nothing short of embarrassment. But as to why was the real mystery. Whether it was because Dwayne had seen him with Marshal, or because Marshal had seen Dwayne… he had trouble figuring out. On the practical side he had to go with the latter, seeing as how Marshal was the one he had to look in the eye every day and Dwayne would forget about the whole thing by tomorrow, no doubt. But then again, what if that loud mouth saw Merle before then?

"Sonova bitch." With his fist clenched, he brought it down hard onto the mattress producing an unsatisfying muffled _bong,_ but it'd have to do because around here, people _actually_ noticed holes in the drywall.

Daryl draped the crook of his elbow over his eyes when the door suddenly cracked opened. Lifting his arm slightly Daryl saw Robbie poke his little grinning face in.

"Yo hick from the sticks! Food's on man." The kid joked, as a wide incomplete smile spread across his face.

If it had been anyone else Daryl might have been pissed, but he supposed Robbie was alright. The kid's real deadbeat parents chose drugs over him, and he wound up living out of a car with his crack-crazy momma before the state got a hold of him. He was about five then and he'd been with Marshal and Pam for nearly three years now. Although mentally, Robbie didn't seem to be all that damaged by his horrible start in life, but physically the kid was small even for his age. It was probably a result from the malnutrition he experienced as a toddler and it made Daryl feel for the kid, but no way would he ever admit it.

Looking at him, Daryl was glad he learned how to fend for himself back in the day. Even now he still got a hankering for some stewed up squirrel every now and then.

Swinging open the door all the way, the kid stepped in. His baggy jeans made him look even smaller than he already was and so did the wide 'fro puffing out from under his oversized baseball hat.

"I said c'mon! What chu waitin' on?"

"Eh, midget, heard ya the first time." Daryl said flatly as he sat up, dropping his booted feet flat on the floor.

The kid's smile narrowed into a smirk and he raised a sassy brow. "Listen man I's still just a kid, but you's _always_ gonna put the dick in Dixie." Covering his mouth with the side of his fist, Robbie snickered.

Daryl grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at Robbie, but the little shit ducked behind the door. "You missed, _sucka_!" Popping his head back in, the kid teased, and then quickly disappeared running away down the hall. Daryl just stood up and rolled his eyes, listening to Robbie laughing as he stomped down the stairs. After a few moments hesitation Daryl finally followed the kid down the stairs.

He'd only been living in the two-story antebellum style home for a week and was having a hard time adjusting. The place was immaculate to Daryl almost creepily so. It was by far the nicest place the state had stuck him, but he felt incredibly uncomfortable there. He'd only ever see homes like this in the movies and sometimes he'd secretly muss up the furniture or clutter up surface space, blemishing the staged feel of the place, just to help put himself at ease.

Halfway down the stairs, Daryl reached out and nonchalantly shifted the picture frame hanging on the wall. He often stared at the family photo, like studying something foreign. None of their captured smiles seemed forced or uncomfortable as Mister and Misses Belington stood side by side with their college aged daughter and little Robby sitting in front of them.

Finally passing the photo by Daryl came up on the kitchen he was nearly knocked flat by Pamela's booming voice …Lord.

"What did I tell you 'bout running up and down them stairs! I tell you, one of these days you're gonna trip and bust open yo head." Pam overdramatically scolded Robbie.

"Sorry Mamma Pam." The kid huffed letting his head hang down.

"Uh huh, now make sure you wash up. _You too_." She said as she caught Daryl out of the corner of her eye, slinking through the kitchen like a stray dog.

For the most part the woman had been pretty cold toward him, but cold meant distant, which suited Daryl just fine.

Daryl skipped the sink and just slid down into a chair at the dining table, which was set and had a plate of asparagus and a pan of fried potatoes already sitting out. Marshal walked in, carrying a platter of sliced pork roast and set it in the middle of the table before sitting down himself.

"Thanks for keepin' quite 'bout the burgers." Marshal murmured, as he eyed Pam through the archway that separated the kitchen and dining room.

Daryl just shrugged in response, still unsure if the man was mad at him, on a count of their run in with Dwayne earlier.

Pam and Robbie soon joined them and the moment they sat down, Marshal looked right over at Daryl.

"Daryl, would you say Grace this evening?" With his elbows on the table and his fingers laced together, Marshal leaned forward as if his request had been a challenge.

"Say what now?" Daryl looked up but didn't exactly make eye contact.

"He doesn't have to." Pamela quickly shook her head, looking at Marshal like he had gone crazy. Turning to the teenager with a tight smile on her face, she repeated. "You don't have to."

"It'd be nice if you did." Not backing down, Marshal sternly insisted.

Shifting his eyes from each of his foster folks, Daryl awkwardly cleared his throat and clasped his hands together. "Uh, Dear Lord… thanks for nuthin' 'cause he bought it an' she cooked it, _ay-_men."

Pamela struggled to keep the line of her lips straight when the boy finished his prayer and tried to hide it behind her clasped hands, earning her a cold stare from across the table. Robbie hid nothing and just loudly cracked up, slapping his knee.

"In this house we take prayer seriously." Marshal said coolly, though it seemed to be more directed at his wife rather than the angry teen or the cackling third grader.

"'F ya don't like the way I do it, then don't ask me to." Daryl said simply.

"Don't you be sassin'." Feeling a little guilty, Pamela composed herself and stepped in. "You better be on your best behavior for the rest of dinner." She warned as she picked up a serving spoon and began dishing out the potatoes.

With their eyes silently shifting, they sat in an uncomfortable silence as Pam continued to load up each of their plates.

After a helping of pork was plunked onto his plate, Daryl shifted in his seat and took a breath.

"So I's thinkin'. Might wanna go n' see my brother." His head was hanging low and he mumbled some, as he peeked up at Marshal from the corner of his eye. The man looked up in surprise and regarded Daryl gravely.

"Well, that's certainly a possibility. Have to talk to Olli 'bout schedulin' a supervised visit."

"Fuck _that_." Daryl blurted.

The room fell silent and with his head sinking in line with his shoulders, Daryl glanced around the table. To his left he could see Marshal giving him _the face_, to his right Robbie sat with his mouth hanging open in silent laughter and across from him, Pam's eyes looked like they were about to fall right out of her head until she blinked them back in.

"I am not havin' that kinda language at my table!" Dropping the serving spoon back into the pan, she pointed upward with her long acrylic fingernail. "You go on up to your room and I don't wanna hear a peep out of you for the rest of the night!"

"Fine! Don't wanna share a table with you people anyway!" Daryl shoved himself away from the table and stormed upstairs, leaving the Belington's exchanging glances.

Shaking her head after hearing the door slam, Pam sat back down. Feeling Marshal's stare on her, she rolled her eyes over to him.

"And I _know_ he ain't goin' hungry. Don't you think fo' one moment I couldn't smell that onion stench."

"Wha! Ya'll got McDonalds without me?" Pouting, Robbie bounced in his chair.

"In n' Out..." Marshal admitted.

"Aw man!"

"Don't you be talkin' 'bout no McDonalds, when there's a beautifully cooked meal sittin' right in front of you." Pam snapped.

"It looks wonderful Pam." Marshal said trying to smooth things over.

"Yeah well you shouldn't be gettin' none eitha, might as well march yo ass up them stairs an' go to your room too." Pam said half jokingly.

"Ah naw, you's in trouble now man!" Brandishing a skewered potato on the end of his fork at his foster father, Robbie's eight year old voice squeaked as he laughed.

— ~~~

Leaning over the bed, Pam pulled off a several decorative pillows from the bed and one by one chucked them into the window seat, eyeballing Marshal all the while. He stood in front of the dresser, pulling on a cotton t-shirt, dressing for bed.

"You wanna tell me what the hell that was about down there? We ain't said Grace in this house since your great aunt came up from Louisiana. You walked yourself right into to that."

Marshal sighed walking over to his side of the bed and pulled back the comforter.

"It wasn't about the prayer. It was about doing what he's asked." He explained as he settled into bed.

"I don't know why you even bother. It's a little late in the game for that. There ain't no need to bait that boy the way you did. We ought to leave him be 'til he ages out." Washing her hands of the whole thing, she climbed into bed beside her husband.

"Children _will_ rise to expectations and it's just our job to have them." He threw up his hands and let them fall limply over his chest. "This boy…" Marshal paused debating about whether to tell Pam about Daryl's rather _charming_ friend he'd met that afternoon. Sighing he decided against it. "We are gonna have our hands full. I need to know where I stand with that boy before things take a turn." With his brow raised in all seriousness, he looked over at Pam.

"Then what do you suggest oh wise one?" She asked facetiously.

"Responsibility and trust." Marshal answered smugly, lacing his fingers together over his chest.

"Uh huh," Pam rolled over pulling the blanket over with her as she reached out and turned off the bedside lamp. "I give ya three weeks and you'll be eatin' them words." She mumbled in the darkness. "Good night."

Marshal sat up in the dark a few moments longer. Finally nodding to himself in vindication of his idea he then laid his head back into his pillow.

— ~~~

_She don't wanna hear a peep, fine, then I ain't gonna be in here ta make one._ Daryl smirked to himself as he silently worked on the window's insect screen. With a careful tug the screen popped free and he set it aside. The window was on the second floor with nothing but a straight drop down. Lucky for Daryl, there was a sprawling live oak on the side of the house; its twisted branches just close enough to creep him out at night when the wind picked up.

Jumping for that fist branch his movements were a little sloppy, like a wild animal that had been in captivity for too long. Knocking off the rust Daryl regained solid footing and stepped down to the next branch. The limb let out a deep groan threatening to snap under the weight.

Staring wide eyed out into the darkness, Daryl froze in place, hoping that nobody had heard anything. When enough time had passed and no lights had turned on, he let out a hot breath and slowly made his way down from branch to branch. Once both booted feet hit the slush covered ground, he wasted no time and took off across the yard.

He slowed as he passed Marshal's Chrysler, but clenched his twitching fingers. He'd learned his lesson last time. Jacking your foster folk's car wasn't exactly the smartest thing to do, beside's Marshal was liable to whop his ass if he so much as touched that damn car. Pulling up his hood, he headed out of the cul-de-sac and straight for the highway, trailed by puffs of his frozen breath.

— ~~~

The fill station's flickering sign crackled and buzzed like a bug zapper on the fritz. Daryl wasn't exactly welcome at Mooch's truck stop anymore, but the place made for easy pickings and he was tired of hoofing it. He'd always wondered why Cole would name the place after himself, it didn't seem like nickname to be too proud of.

Stalking up the cracked and poorly patched parking lot, Daryl leaned up against the side of the little shop and waited. His skin was burning from the cold but no way would he set on foot inside, not after Mooch chased him and Dwayne out with a tire iron for stealing beer, two years ago. Lord that tweaker was fast and crazy to boot. Daryl found out that he could run about a mile with a 30-pack that day, before having to ditch it that is.

Keeping his hood up he stayed out of sight as several car's pulled up: a brand new Dodge truck and a small green sedan. Of course the pecker in the truck probably deserved it more than the lady who got out of the car, but sometimes convenience outweighed morality.

He watched and waited for his chance as the lady headed inside. Keeping low he ran around to the Driver's side and opened the door. Leaning in, he reached for the steering column cover when his breath hitched so hard he damn near let out a squeak.

"Hello." A voice gurgled from the rear of the car.

At this point all Daryl could do was slowly turn his head toward backseat with a stupid look on his face. Sure enough there strapped into a car seat was a big-eyed toddler, with her corkscrew curls done up in puffs.

"Doin'?" The kid asked as she kicked her little feet, just a giggling.

"Nothin'." Daryl answered dumbly, shock still gripping his features.

Silently scolding himself for not checking the backseat, he looked around for a plan B, which turned out to be some change he saw in the ashtray.

After grabbing a few quarters, Daryl turned to the girl and held a finger up to his lips, which in spite of himself formed a slight smile. The little girl smiled back and mimicked his gesture before waving bye-bye as Daryl quietly shut the door.

Tucking away back around the corner of the building, Daryl kept an eye on the green sedan until the little girl's mother came back out to the car. Shaking his head at himself as they drove off, he headed for the storefront payphone.

— ~~~

Chapter inspired by:

Youthless - Beck


End file.
